


and should I then presume?

by wildcard_47



Category: Mad Men
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 2013 Mad Men kinkmeme, for <a href="http://madmenkinkmeme.livejournal.com/882.html?thread=18034#t18034">this prompt.</a> I blame the plotbunnies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let's call this a 1967 AU, shall we? Joan's partner, Lane never embezzled, we'll get to explanations but I basically needed an excuse to write shameless fluff. Done and done.
> 
> Title taken from Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" because _of course._

Monday morning, when she unlocks her office door after ten days' vacation, Joan finds a single white gardenia decorating the center of her desk. It sits in a half-full water glass, beside a piece of heavy blue cardstock that proclaims, in careful, black script: _welcome back, with love, from your secret admirer._

Her first impulse is to laugh. This is a surprise. Her second, more urgent, impulse is to sneeze. The culprit is immediately banished to the round table in the creative lounge, but its cloying perfume lingers, and Joan spends the morning with a raw nose and her handkerchief clutched in one fist.

Just after lunchtime, Lane peers around her door with a concerned expression and a hesitant:

“Are you poorly?”

“Hayfever,” Joan replies. Her voice is still rough from the congestion.

She inclines her head toward the flower in the lounge, still visible from her window. From this angle, the fluorescent light sparkles off the water glass in prisms, pretty from a safe distance. He follows her gaze, eyes widening behind his glasses as he moves to peer through the window, and manages a nervous:

“What – you mean, from that...flower?”

After a pause, and in a smaller voice.

“Poor thing. It's so far away.”

She studies his profile. There aren't many men in this office who'd send her a love token with an anonymous card. Even fewer who'd pretend complete innocence. Most men have too much ego to let someone else take all the credit. Or, Joan thinks wryly, they have less distinctive handwriting.

“It was on my desk this morning,” she begins, meaning to draw him out, but is interrupted by a sneezing fit so violent her ears are ringing by the time it's over. When she glances up again, wiping her nose with her handkerchief as delicately as she can manage, Lane's watching her with soft eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

Joan swallows, trying to stop the itch in her throat.

“Some water,” she says hoarsely.

_Tell_ _Bridget,_ she means, but Lane nods once, and darts into the hallway, disappearing for several minutes. When he returns, it's with a company coffee mug on a bright blue saucer, filled to the brim with cold water. A packet of aspirin and a packet of alka-seltzer are tucked beside the mug, next to a gleaming spoon.

“Sorry. I don't...know where the girls went, so I just—” he says by way of explanation, placing the lot onto her desk with an awkward smile, and edging back toward the door.

“I'll see you later, I suppose,” he says finally, as she falls victim to another sneeze.

The alka-seltzer is overkill, but Joan ends up being very thankful for the aspirin.


	2. Chapter 2

The following Monday, Joan gets to work a little early, hoping to beat her _admirer_ to the punch. Unfortunately, the only other person in the office is Stan, who's lying on the sofa in the lounge, eating from an almost-empty sampler box balanced on his chest. The room's a disaster: posterboard, scattered drawings and crumpled paper litter the floor around him. This, plus his greasy face, rumpled clothes, and the acrid, lingering smell of pot indicate he's been here all night.

She doesn't suppress her noise of disgust as she unlocks her door.

“What are you _doing_?”

Mouth too full to speak, Stan sits up and proffers the box in her direction, wiping his face with his other shirtsleeve and finally managing a garbled:

“Y'wan'one?”

She holds up a hand to indicate that no, she doesn't.

“Found 'em,” he says thickly, swinging his legs around to plant his feet on the floor. Even from this distance, she can see small flecks of melted chocolate spray from his mouth and into his beard. “They're really good.”

Joan pushes open her door with a scoff, and slants him a scornful glare.

“You look like a pig at the trough.”

He starts to snicker, head lolling forward until she can only see his face in profile. To her left, there's a loud bang as Ginsberg slings open the door to his own office, looking just as rumpled, but visibly panicked. An empty trash bag trails from his right hand, and when he sees her, he blurts:

“Joan, will you quit staring at me like that, I'm working on it!”

He slows his walk enough to gesture toward Bridget's desk, where several letters rest in a messy pile on the polished wood. The small envelope on top is the same pale blue as the cardstock from last week.

“Genius almost ate those, too. Sorry. I gotta house-train him before he wrecks the place.”

A loud, low thump echoes through the lounge, followed by the whisper of scattering papers. Ginsberg swears under his breath and storms past Joan, shaking the trash bag at a grinning Stan with an irate:

“Would you stop it, already?! You're making it worse!”

Joan shuts her door with an exasperated sigh, and tosses her coat and purse into one of the upholstered chairs, tearing open the blue envelope to find a poem instead of a message:

 

_Roses are red_

_Chocolate is brown_

_You are the cleverest woman in town_

Oh, dear god. Teenage hippies have better ears for poetry. It's terrible by any set of standards. But amusement bubbles up inside her anyway, and Joan can't help smiling every time she looks at Lane's handwriting. The sharp loops and points of his letters are softer here than in the ledger or the monthly reports. He's tried some calligraphy, too, capital letters flourished rather than keeping them neat. She imagines him sitting at his desk, writing with one of his fountain pens, guiding each stroke of the nib over paper with careful, painstaking effort.

Joan can't decide whether that mental picture is more funny or touching, but either way, it doesn't rival the moment when Lane arrives for the day and glimpses Stan polishing off the last bonbon. Between Lane's choked-off outrage (“Where did you—oh, for god's sake, clean your _face_ , you look like a bloody _animal_!”) and Stan's misguided attempt to talk around his last mouthful of chocolate while Lane yells at him about office decorum, she has to bite her lip and duck away from the windows to keep a straight face.

The card ends up getting tucked into her desk drawer. She just likes looking at it. There's nothing wrong with that.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time she and Lane have an opportunity to talk, they're going over the second quarter figures in his office, Thursday afternoon. The tea has finished steeping. Lane's pushed his spreadsheets onto the coffee table to indicate he's ready for a break, and Joan decides to end the silence by pouring tea into both of their cups.

“I heard from my admirer again,” she says, hiding a smile behind her teacup.

Lane turns his head to stare at her, eyebrows raised in surprise. “You—what?”

“I thought I told you?” she asks, feigning innocence. “It was on Monday.”

“No,” Lane replies, setting his tea aside. Curiosity's creeping into his voice. “I'd have remembered.”

She affects a little shrug, keeping her tone light.

“He wrote me a poem.”

Lane ducks his head, obscuring his expression, and when he glances up again, he reaches for his teacup.

“I didn't realize this fellow was a wordsmith.”

Taking a quick sip.

She smiles. “It was a very short poem.”

“I suppose—” he begins, clearing his throat, and looking at her with an awkward smile, “it wouldn't be proper to inquire what you made of it?”

Her eyes widen. “You mean, did I _like_ it?”

A surprised huff of laughter escapes his lips. “Am I allowed to ask?”

Joan smiles at him, to show she's not offended.

“I don't mind.”

The small friendship they'd originally struck has grown significantly over the past two years. Even if it wasn't Lane sending these messages, and Joan receiving them, they'd probably discuss it. They talk about nearly everything, now, from finance and office gossip to their personal lives.

(Mrs. Pryce filed a divorce petition in London, in the fall. Lane was melancholy for weeks before he said anything.)

He's looking at her expectantly, and so Joan says, after a pause:

“It was cute.”

with an amused noise, because she hasn't used that word to describe much since high school, and she _knows_ that's not the adjective he wanted to hear.

Lane's laughing, too – probably the nerves – but he manages to stutter out:

“ _Cute?_ ”

as if he can't believe his ears.

Joan gives him a teasing glance.

“It was three lines, and it made me smile. It was _cute_.”

Though it certainly wasn't Shakespeare. She decides to redirect the conversation.

“I've always liked poetry.”

“Really?”

She inclines her head toward the pile of work on the coffee table. “Did you know I studied literature in college?”

Lane seems surprised or impressed by this, Joan can't quite tell which.

“You look shocked,” she says.

He blinks, shakes his head as if to clear it. “No, not at all—I only—” he waves a distracted hand through the air “—assumed you'd started with a secretarial course. You know, something...practical.”

“What's _impractical_ about being well-read?” Joan asks archly, playing devil's advocate.

“Nothing. It's...well done,” he continues quickly, flushing. "I was always hopeless with poetry. You ought to have seen my term papers—”

He finally catches the mischievous glint in Joan's eyes, and lets out a rueful laugh, understanding that she meant to tease him with that last comment, not scold.

Joan reaches out, pats his arm. “Sorry.”

“Not nice,” he grumbles, but he's good-natured about the situation, and Joan decides to reward the humor with a more genuine answer.

“I took secretarial courses because I wanted to work in an office, rather than teach.”

A loud _bang_ echoes off the shared wall – creative, it's _always_ creative – and in the other room, Stan and Ginsberg begin to yell at each other, starting with: _jesus, will you shut up_ _!_ and _how're you gonna fucking make me?_ until their argument slurs into a frustrated, unintelligible cacophony. She starts to laugh, low in her throat, slanting Lane a pointed look that says _can you imagine?_

The next Monday, a slim, leather-bound volume greets Joan from her desk, but there's no blue card to accompany it, or even an inscription in the front cover. When Joan picks up the book, however, two handwritten, carbon-paper receipts fall out. One is yellow, from a bookshop near the park. He must have forgotten them. On the back of the yellow receipt, in quick, messy handwriting, are a group of crossed-out phrases that seem to be the result of brainstorming:

~~_For Joan_~~

Variations include _my dear Joan, darling Joan_ , _lovely Joan._

~~_In case you'd like something to read._ ~~

Joan picks up the book, running one hand over its supple leather cover, the gilded letters on the spine. The pages feel crisp against her fingers as she opens the book, flips through them.

_Lovely._

She closes the book, exhales a deep breath, and puts it carefully aside.

It's very sentimental.


	4. Chapter 4

Joan's taking a reading break at her desk, leaning back in her chair, when there's a knock on her door. As she sits up, Lane opens the door, peering around the frame. Once he spots the book in her hands, his expression turns mischievous.

“What are you reading?”

She smirks at him in a silent _hello_.

“Perhaps my secret I may say, or you may guess.”

He raises an eyebrow, and closes the door behind him with a strange flourish, almost knocking over her wooden coat rack in the process. As he grasps for it in a panic to keep it from falling, Joan averts her eyes, and bites the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing, waiting for Lane to get settled.

After a moment, he takes a seat, and finally says, still attempting to be playful:

“Another gift from your fellow?”

She closes the book, showing it off with one hand in a silent yes.

“Isn't it nice?”

He pulls an impressed face:

“May I?”

and holds out a hand for the book, as if to inspect it. Joan hands it to him, suppressing a smile as he turns it around in his hands, flipping open the front cover with an expression close to triumph. This turns to confusion the minute he sees there's no inscription.

She uses the distraction to slide the yellow receipt, still on her desk, under an open file folder of spreadsheets.

Finally, Lane clears his throat.

“Was there...no card?”

She thinks he intends to sound curious, but the tone's so disappointed it's all Joan can do to reply, as if she hasn't given the oversight much thought:

“I think the medium is supposed to be the message.”

He's watching her carefully, expression guarded. She motions for him to hand back the volume, flipping quickly to a page she'd dog-eared earlier, and reads aloud:

_O let me for one moment touch her wrist;  
Let me one moment to her breathing list;_

_And as she leaves me may she often turn  
Her fair eyes looking through her locks aubùrne._

“Keats,” she says by way of explanation, lifting her eyes briefly to study Lane's reaction – somewhere between anxious and intent – before another poem catches her eye.

“Hm. Very romantic,” he says quietly, adjusting his glasses.

Joan slants him a smile.

“I like the title of this one.”

Holding out the book for Lane to take. When he sees the poem she's indicating, a smile begins to bloom at the corners of his mouth.

“To a Friend, Who Sent Me Some Roses.”

He glances over the text, and after an almost imperceptible hesitation, reads aloud:

_Soft voices had they, that with tender plea_

_Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled._

 

His voice turns gruff, as if he's embarrassed, and he averts his eyes for a moment, continuing to study the book in his hands:

“If I remember correctly, they whisper _very_ sharply.”

Joan's mouth quirks in amusement, remembering how furious she'd been that day, how everything he did and said had felt insulting. It feels like another lifetime.

“Do you...” he begins in a rush, now studiously avoiding her gaze, “have a favorite? Poet, or poem, or something?”

She blinks.

“From the book?”

He makes a noise of assent, still – supposedly – absorbed in reading.

Joan considers the question. Most of the verses are familiar: Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth. She's read so many poems – too many, if she's honest – about men pledging undying devotion to beautiful dream-women.

There was one piece that reminded her of Lane. It was the style of the writing – the speaker's longing and desire couched in hesitant phrases. Very English, and melancholy by the end. It wasn't really a love poem, despite the title. But reading it made her wistful in a way she was careful not to examine too closely.

“Prufrock,” she begins, earning a look of polite bafflement from Lane at the word.

Before she has a chance to clarify, they're interrupted by the buzzing intercom.

“Mrs. Harris? Peter Morris from Topaz is on line two.”

“I'm busy,” she tells Bridget in a brusque voice, hanging up and turning back to Lane with an exasperated look, only to see he's already rising from his chair, slipping the open book carefully onto her desk.

“No, no, I won't keep you. Just—what was the—name?”

Joan doesn't admit she was hoping he'd stay.

“Prufrock. T.S. Eliot.”

Lane nods once, but doesn't have time to speak before Bridget buzzes in again:

“I'm sorry. He says it's important.”

“Then put him through, for god's sake,” Joan snaps at the receiver, all traces of her good mood evaporating as she releases the intercom button and the phone begins to ring.

The door squeaks as it opens. She does not watch Lane leave.

“Mr. Morris,” she says smoothly, removing her earring with her left hand and toying it through her fingers as she cradles the phone to her right ear. “I hope you're well.”

**

Joan spends the next day on the phone, trying to navigate a crisis. Topaz has moved headquarters, and their movers somehow lost the boxes containing their current billings. Meaning everyone's upcoming tax paperwork, SCDP's included, is hell as a result. She's put on hold more times than she can count, and transferred from lackey to lackey in accounting, who have little success in reconstructing all of the missing information. When she emerges from her office at 2PM, furious, frustrated, and determined to get out of the office, Scarlett waves her over before she can walk toward reception.

“Mr. Pryce wanted to see you.”

Following a more judicious look at Joan's narrowed eyes and the firm set of her jaw.

“....If you have time.”

Joan sighs, and doesn't even motion for the girl to buzz her in, just walks to Lane's door, knocks once, and opens it in a fluid motion.

Apparently he's having a late lunch, too, because she catches him mid-mouthful. On his desk is a sheet of wax paper with half a sandwich resting on it, plus an open bag of potato chips, and a piece of whole fruit.

Lane makes a muffled sound of surprise, covering his mouth, and chews for a long few seconds in an attempt to swallow his food and greet her, but it's still not enough for him to speak. She waves away his silent apologies, closing the door and sinking down onto the chair opposite his desk.

“Scarlett said you needed to see me.”

“Well, yes,” he finally manages. “But – before your lunch. Are you just going?”

“I just spent three hours on the phone,” she clarifies, with an unhappy look, and his expression turns sympathetic.

“Oh.”

She lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“I'm barely even hungry.”

Eyeing the sandwich on his desk with a feeling between dull curiosity and revulsion. Ham. Just looking at it turns her stomach. The food downstairs will be just as bad: dry sandwiches and limp salads. Maybe she'll just go to a diner.

A dull scraping sound catches her attention and pulls her out of her reverie. Joan looks up to see Lane pushing a small plate across his desk, in her direction.

Half a piece of peach glistens face-up at her. His teacup is now missing its saucer.

“Have some. If you like.”

She blinks at the plate, then looks back at Lane, who's cutting his half of the fruit over the wax paper, into methodical slices, and being careful not to look at her. Juice drips from his fingers as he discards the pit into the trash can behind his desk, wipes his hands on a nearby handkerchief, then wipes the silver letter opener, setting it aside and taking a bite from one of the larger slices.

Peaches. It can't be a coincidence. He read the poem.

After another moment of consideration, she edges her hand forward and picks up her half from the saucer plate, taking a small nibble. The fruit isn't as ripe as she usually likes, but it's still sweet, and its tart burst of flavor is more enjoyable than she expected. She takes a second bite, shielding her mouth as she chews thoughtfully, and swallows.

“Where did you get these?”

Peaches aren't in season. It's barely even June.

“Grocer's,” Lane says, as if this should be obvious.

Joan fixes him with a fond but unamused look, setting down the rest of her slice. He continues, with a rueful laugh:

“Ten blocks north. Bought an entire bushel.”

Her mouth quirks into a grin, imagining him juggling an enormous basket of peaches through midtown and back to Sutton Place, along with his briefcase, hat, and coat.

“I didn't think you liked peaches _that_ much.”

She's trying to be funny, but when his expression turns serious, anxiety blooming pink in his cheeks, she realizes he's not in a joking mood.

“Very much, in fact.”

And as anxious as he must be, Lane's still holding her gaze.

“I—forgive me if I'm...wrong, but I...think you already know.”

She toys with the edge of her saucer plate for a moment, fingers tracing the edge of the blue filigree pattern before she looks up, and makes her own admission.

“It helps that I know your handwriting.”

He huffs out a surprised breath, running a hand over the back of his neck. A ruddy flush creeps up from his collar and into his face.

“Well. There it is.”

Joan shakes her head. That's not all she wants to say.

“I loved the cards,” she tells him gently. “I thought they were charming.”

The taken aback expression on his face at the last word suggests he thinks she's kidding, but after a moment – in which she gives him a small smile of encouragement, and his surprise fades into seriousness – Lane clears his throat and manages to ask, voice gruff:

“I don't suppose...you'd like to have dinner? This weekend?”

_Finally_. She flashes him a pleased look.

“Can you do Friday?”

The huff of laughter that escapes him is some combination of nerves and excitement, and his surprised smile lights up his face. With more sureness, he continues:

“What time shall I...call on you?”

“Six o'clock?” she asks airily. “You could pick me up by the elevators.”

Not like he's going to meet her mother and make small talk in their living room. It's a workday. She'll have to bring in a change of clothes. But his expression is so warm as he looks at her that she decides to keep the joke to herself.

“Right. Well,” he says, tone turning playful, and grin unwavering. “I suppose I shall see you then.”

Joan lets out an amused exhale, and on an impulse reaches across the desk to press her hand over his, briefly, before drawing back, and rising from her chair.

“You'll see me in an hour. I'm going to lunch.”

Joan can't resist putting a little more swing into her step as she walks away, or glancing back at him with a small, flirtatious wave before opening the door. It makes him blush again. She could get used to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go! Hope you guys are enjoying it. FWIW, the four poems name-checked above were
> 
> [Winter: My Secret](http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/crossetti/bl-crossetti-winter.htm), by Christina Rosetti:
> 
> _Perhaps some languid summer day,_  
>  When drowsy birds sing less and less,  
> And golden fruit is ripening to excess,  
> If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,  
> And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,  
> Perhaps my secret I may say,  
> Or you may guess. 
> 
>  
> 
> [I Stood Tiptoe Upon A Little Hill](http://www.bartleby.com/126/2.html), John Keats: 
> 
> _Were I in such a place, I sure should pray_  
>  That nought less sweet, might call my thoughts away,  
> Than the soft rustle of a maiden’s gown  
> Fanning away the dandelion’s down;  
> Than the light music of her nimble toes  
> Patting against the sorrel as she goes.  
> How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught  
> Playing in all her innocence of thought.  
> O let me lead her gently o’er the brook,  
> Watch her half-smiling lips, and downward look;  
> O let me for one moment touch her wrist;  
> Let me one moment to her breathing list;  
> And as she leaves me may she often turn  
> Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.  
> What next? A tuft of evening primroses,  
> O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes...
> 
> [To A Friend, Who Sent Me Some Roses](http://www.bartleby.com/126/18.html), also by Keats.
> 
> And [The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock](http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html), T.S. Eliot:
> 
>  
> 
> _And would it have been worth it, after all,_  
>  After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,  
> Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,  
> Would it have been worth while,  
> To have bitten off the matter with a smile,  
> To have squeezed the universe into a ball  
> To roll it toward some overwhelming question,  
> To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,  
> Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—  
> If one, settling a pillow by her head,  
> Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;  
> That is not it, at all.”
> 
>  
> 
> _...Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?_  
>  I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.  
> I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
> 
>  
> 
> _I do not think that they will sing to me._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the point of filling a kinkmeme prompt, you may ask, if there aren't any sex scenes? Well, ask no further, friends. Chapter 5 is here -- unbeta'd, but here nonetheless. Meanwhile, if you'd like to pretend the fic ended with adorable chivalry and flirting, now is the time to turn back.
> 
> Anon requester, I hope you enjoyed your story. Sorry it took me six months to finish it!

One date turns into another, and on the second Friday, just as Joan's walking out of the restroom in a brand new dress – royal blue jacquard, scoop neck – she bumps into Ken Cosgrove in the hallway. He takes in her change of clothes with a low whistle and an impressed face.

“Joan. What's the occasion?”

She adjusts the sleeve of her black wool coat, looping her purse over her left arm as they walk toward reception.

“I have dinner plans.”

Ken holds the glass door open for her as they cross out of reception and into the hallway.

“Well, make sure your date behaves. You look great.”

Smirking, Joan thanks him, and presses the button for the elevator. She's supposed to meet Lane downstairs; he's getting the cab.

Ken stands several feet to her right, briefcase set on the floor as he fumbles with the collar of his raincoat. After a minute, the elevator dings and the doors open. When Lane sees her, he straightens up, cheeks pinking.

“You've worn my color,” he says with a grin, gesturing to the dress and stepping off the elevator to take her hand. They were nearly through dinner last week when he confessed – blushing – that he'd always liked seeing her in blue.

“I thought you'd appreciate that,” she replies lightly, casting a sidelong glance to her right in an attempt to warn him – _someone else is here_. Lane, turning to follow her gaze, notices Ken standing a few feet away and drops his outstretched arm as quickly as if he's been burned.

“Oh,” he all he manages at first, staring at the other man with a slack, horrified look before recovering his manners. “Are you—erm—going down?”

Gesturing to the open elevator car.

Joan tries not to roll her eyes.

Ken clears his throat, smiling a little but turning to squint at the window inside reception.

“Yeah—but I'm wondering if I need my umbrella. Is it raining yet?”

“I don't...think so,” Lane says slowly, running a nervous hand through his hair and glancing sheepishly at Joan as he continues. “Though I didn't really—notice.”

The elevator dings, threatening to close, and the sound seems to jolt them all into movement. Joan darts forward to hit the button before it can depart, Lane shifts his weight from foot to foot, glancing awkwardly from the two of them to the open doors, while Ken picks up his briefcase, transferring it to his other hand with obvious unease.

“Why don't you go _get_ your umbrella,” Joan says to Ken, amusement threatening to temper the directness of her voice as she says the last two words, “just to be safe.”

He huffs out a relieved breath, crooking the thumb of his free hand toward the glass doors.

“You know what, yeah. I'll just catch the next one.”

Joan suppresses a snort of laughter, flashing Lane a brilliant smile as Ken walks back into reception – _see, we escaped!_ – and calling an airy _good night_ over her shoulder as they step into the elevator car.

Least he caught on quickly. She'll thank him tomorrow.

“Sorry,” Lane says, once the doors close, and they're on their way down. “Ought to have checked—only I thought we were alone.”

Impulsive, she loops her arm through his, and leans in, pitching her voice low.

“We're alone now.”

“Well, it doesn't count,” he says gruffly. “Doors will open in a minute.”

“Suit yourself,” Joan replies, deciding to indulge a sudden whim. Smoothly, she leans in and kisses his cheek, releases his arm, and steps to the other end of the elevator car with feigned innocence, not bothering to hide her laugh at his surprised expression.

The corners of his mouth are twitching up, despite his attempt to keep a straight face, and his fingertips brush over the spot where she'd kissed him. Like he's dazed.

“Don't worry,” she says, quirking him a more genuine smile as she smooths out a wrinkle in her black coat. “No lipstick.”

He drops his hand back to his side, as if he didn't even realize he'd lifted it.

“Right.”

**

They have dinner at a hole-in-the-wall French bistro in Midtown. By the time the entree arrives, they're halfway through a bottle of merlot. Lane pours a little more for her, then for him, and when he raises his glass to her with a buoyant _bon appetit_ , Joan clinks them together with a smile. Wine drips over the side of her glass and onto the white linen tablecloth. She wipes it away with her napkin.

Spending time together outside of the office is both a novel and familiar experience. They've shared meals together over the years – Joan thinks about a lunch counter they'd frequented for several weeks last summer, when the building's air was broken – but to eat and talk and enjoy each other's company in such an intimate setting – especially given the promise of what could happen at the end of the night – gives it all a new vigor.

Lane still claims to hate office gossip – “it isn't _nice_ to talk about other people, I really don't care for it” – but after half a bottle of wine, he eagerly listens to and weighs in on her many borrowed anecdotes. Joan's gleaned enough about Clara's recent escapades to keep him entertained for months. And while she doesn't see why building and painting models of Victorian-era warships would be compelling, the swell of pride Lane gets while describing his hobby to her is very endearing. His face lights up the same way it does when he's discussing multi-factor pricing models.

After dinner, when they get into the cab and Lane supplies his address to the driver in a manner so offhand it must be habit, Joan turns to him with an amused expression.

"We're going to your apartment?"

His cheeks redden, eyes darting to meet hers before focusing on the driver's nameplate.

"Erm. Well, I—I meant to ask if you'd—like to have a bit of tea. Once we arrive."

His leg brushes against hers so cautiously Joan knows it's deliberate, and she raises her eyebrows, settling back into the seat with a sly smile. Tea. That's a new one.

“Of course,” she says lightly.

She means to touch his arm again, but her hand slips due to the wine, boldness, or some combination of the two, and ends up landing on his knee. She feels him stiffen in surprise at the contact, and her smile widens.

“Sounds like fun.”

**

Tea isn't exactly a euphemism. Lane really does put the kettle on once they get to his apartment. From her seat on his living room sofa, Joan listens to him rattle around the kitchen. Spoons clatter against china, drawers are opened and slammed closed, and the kettle whistles shrilly, drowning out Lane's mumblings. She has to bite the inside of her cheek to stay composed. Poor man. She doesn't know why he's so nervous. It's just the two of them.

Lane emerges from the kitchen with a full tray: two painted, fine-boned cups on saucers, flanked by a tall silver teapot, a small, round, red cookie tin and what looks like several pieces of chocolate candy arranged on another plate. Joan doesn't plan to eat a bite, but takes a quick sip of her tea to be polite.

After a few minutes, and some stilted talk about the upcoming weekend, they lapse into silence. Joan pretends to be very interested in the headline of an old _Wall Street Journal_ spread out underneath the tea tray, while Lane – judging from the way he keeps fidgeting and staring at her – seems to be gathering his courage to make a move.

She doesn't rush him, doesn't even say anything, just sets her cup aside and waits.

He kisses her on the cheek first: hesitant and quick, like he's afraid of offending her. Joan turns to look at him, one corner of her mouth turning up as she teases him:

“Call that a kiss?”

She touches his upper arm, letting her fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket and tilting her head to look up at him, coy. Her gaze drifts from his darkening eyes down to his mouth.

One of his hands moves to her waist – slow, deliberate – as he pulls her in for a real kiss. It's nothing like the first time – that wild struggle for physical connection – but it isn't chaste, either. He seems determined not to rush things, not that she's complaining. Tenderness still takes them down the same road. Just lowers the stakes.

She loves returning his deep, open-mouthed kisses, loves the way this kind of closeness allows for more nuance instead of desperation and sloppiness and _now_. His hands stroke over her hair, her face, the swell of her hips, and she grips his shoulders, pulling him closer. After several minutes, they break apart, breathing heavily. His glasses are fogged up, which makes her giggle, and after he momentarily removes them to swipe at the lenses with a grumbled noise, he sneaks in a few more kisses under her jaw, making her suck in a sharp breath.

“Want to hear that again,” he murmurs, and she threads her fingers through the back of his hair, exhaling a breathless laugh. It turns into a gasp when he finds a spot below her ear that's particularly sensitive.

“Let's go somewhere more comfortable,” she manages, before he can distract her too much. He draws back almost immediately, nodding his head once, donning his glasses again and getting to his feet – offering her his hand _._

She toes out of her shoes before she gets up. When she loops her fingers through his, it makes him smile and squeeze her hand in encouragement. He leads her down the main hallway, and they pass two doors on the left before entering his bedroom.

It's very elegant: furniture made of rich mahogany, paired with pale blue wallpaper. His bed – four-poster with a beige bedspread, and cream-colored linens - is huge. The bedsheets and pillows are bright against the dark headboard.

“It suits you,” she says, standing at the foot of the bed and casting a quick look around the room. A long dresser and mirrored wardrobe face opposite the bed, while in the left corner of the room, sharing the same wall as the door, is a stained-glass standing lamp and a small end table. The right hand wall features a large set of French doors, maybe leading to a balcony or a closet, and a set of upholstered chairs surrounding a large wireless.

He laughs a little, letting go of her hand to loosen his tie, pull it over his head, and letting it drop to the floor.

“Good. I'm glad you—like it.”

He takes off his suit jacket, but drapes it carefully over the arms of one of the chairs – maybe not as much out of consideration for the fabric as to calm his nerves with what is probably routine.

Joan's first priority, meanwhile, is to get out of her own clothes as efficiently and quickly as possible. She reaches for her collar to start her zipper. When she looks over at him again, dress gaping open in the back, Lane's hands have stilled on the buttons of his waistcoat. He shakes his head, as if coming out of a dream, and quickly shrugs out of the vest, letting it fall behind him in a messy heap.

She does the same with her dress, then pulls her slip over her head and tosses it away, exhaling a happy breath as cool air hits her exposed shoulders, chest, and legs. Her long-line bra, underwear, and garters are a sturdy, satin black, nothing novel by her own standards, but the sharp breath Lane takes when he sees her wearing them makes Joan smirk. He's so distracted he misses the last two buttons on his oxford, hands going straight to his belt.

Shirt askew, and trousers now unbuckled, Lane steps out of the suit pants, puts his glasses on the dresser, and moves forward, kissing her again – more passionately this time. He lets his hands wander now, one cupping her breast and the other caressing her hip. They end up falling back onto the bed – she yelps in surprise at the sudden loss of balance, he snickers at her reaction more than anything else – but they turn serious again as his palm begins to slide under the waistband of her panties.

He touches her so softly at first Joan thinks she might kill him, but at her whine of protest increases the pressure of his fingers, gradual and patient until she's gasping out a noise that's almost his name, hips grinding up against his hand. He strokes her faster, kissing her jaw and neck and the tops of her breasts and whispering encouragement against her skin _._ She closes her eyes, surrenders, lets herself be pulled under the oncoming wave.

When she returns to herself, she opens her eyes to see him studying her, expression soft. She reaches out for him, pulls him closer until he's on top of her. It isn't enough, and so she kisses him again, grinding against his hips until he groans into her mouth.

They make quick work of his oxford and undershirt. Before he can remove his underwear, she takes the opportunity to touch him through the cotton, brushing the back of her knuckles against his arousal, then rubbing him slightly harder with her palm, which makes him shiver. When she pulls her hand away, he reaches around her to unfasten her bra with shaking fingers, moving back just enough to help her shimmy out of her underwear. His eyes glaze over when he finally sees her naked, and she huffs out a laugh at his dopey expression. Men.

“Don't leave a girl high and dry,” she says as lightly as she can, briefly touching his chest in an attempt to break the spell. He snorts out a noise that means he doesn't intend to, getting his underwear all the way off, fingers and mouth caressing her breasts for several minutes before he moves to embrace her.

She puts her arms around his neck. They lock eyes briefly, and with that silent moment of reassurance, he thrusts inside her. When his hips are flush against hers, Lane makes a low noise in the back of his throat, has to close his eyes and keep still for a moment. Joan waits as long as she can, but her body screams that it isn't enough. Her legs wrap around him, heels digging into his lower back, needing that skin to skin contact.

“Lane,” she says breathlessly, almost a plea.

He doesn't say anything – not words, anyway – just lets out a shaky breath, starts to set a rhythm. For a few minutes, it's perfect – it's too much – she needs more.

“Don't stop,” she urges, hissing in a breath and pressing her face into the crook of his shoulder as he moves faster. His panting is hot and loud in her ear; she can feel his muscles tensing and contracting against her inner thighs. When she rolls her hips forward, his thrusts stroke over that spot—

“—Oh, _yes—_ ”

Her words elict a breathless moan. Ragged grunts spill from his lips as he moves faster. He's close—and so is Joan, she feels herself on the precipice of that edge. Her hands clutch his back, nails digging into the skin, and Lane lets out a choked, desperate noise:

“Oh, god—Joan, I'm—”

Then he can't speak, two deep groans tearing from his throat as he thrusts up one more time, while his body trembles and he spills inside her. It's the words which finally tip her over the edge, the roughness of his voice and his loss of control combined with the other sensations. She tightens around him with a cry.

After they've caught their breath, he withdraws but doesn't roll away, just lifts his head from where it's resting on her shoulder, nudging his lips from her neck to her jaw to her mouth, kissing her so softly his lips barely brush hers.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Not necessary,” Joan whispers back after a beat, hands splayed against his back, staring up at him and feeling protective of his awkwardness. Who _thanks_ someonefor good sex?

She reminds herself to acknowledge the sentiment behind his words – the gratitude that she took a chance on him, that they're here together now – and puts one of her palms to his cheek, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the scratch of stubble at his jaw.

“I loved this,” she says, trying to distill her appreciation for the evening into the most succinct words. He nods his head very slightly. She kisses him again.

When they part, she moves her hand to his chest and inclines her head in the direction of the covers, which are crumpled at the foot of the bed.

“Roll over. I want to sleep.”

“Okay.”

Lane obliges, moving left and settling onto his back with a deep exhale, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. She pulls the blankets up and partially over them, with his assistance, then puts her head on his chest, curling into his side with her legs drawn up, letting her right arm splay across his ribs. Listening to his quiet breaths, to the quick but steady beat of his heart, she starts to relax. He wraps his arm around her back, fingers stroking her shoulder, and plants a kiss in her hair. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to drift.


End file.
